Mother May I(97)

I was on my feet, a scream stuck in my throat, before I could so much as blink. When I did blink, she was gone.

I sat back down so abruptly it was almost a collapse, my whole body breaking out in icy sweat. Dust motes danced in the sunlight where I’d seen her standing. There was no girl in Robert’s room. There was no girl period. Lexie was almost fifty now; she’d looked closer to sixty in her mug shot. I scrubbed at my aching eyes, clearing the last of her away.

I went to pick up Robert and smell his downy head, whispering, “We’re safe, you’re safe, we’re safe,” as I changed him, but I did not believe it.

I walked over to his dresser, inspecting myself in the mirror. It took me a little while to find Bree Cabbat’s face. I practiced her relaxed shoulders, easy posture, all her regular expressions. I manufactured a soft, unworried gaze and pushed my mouth into a happy shape. I held that cheery smile until I could see it light my eyes. Only then did I go to make sure that the girls were up and getting ready for school. For the next half hour, I played the role of their mother, fixing breakfast and checking homework.

As soon as they left with the same ex-soldier who’d taken Trey, I let my face do whatever it wanted. I let my body slouch and huddle. I longed for Trey to call or text, give me any indication of his thoughts today.

I needed sleep. I lay down with Robert for all his naps, but sleep would not come. The day floated by us in a fog, and the slim shape of young Lexie lurked in every shadow. She woke me from every faint doze I fell into, touching my cheek with chilly fingers. When Robert was up and playing or eating or fussing, she coalesced at every window, staring in with wide, accusing eyes. I would whip to face her and find nothing.

I decided that tonight I would take one of Trey’s pills after all.

It was past four when I finally heard from my husband. He sent a text.

Things got out of hand last night. We’re sleep-deprived and so on edge. And who can blame us? I love you. You know that. Can we talk?



I texted back immediately. I’d like that.

Good. Not at home, though. Meet me for a drink after work at Haven?



South City Haven was a chic gastropub on the ground floor of the Midtown high-rise that housed his firm. The building was up on a hill, putting Haven at least a floor above Tenth Avenue’s traffic sounds. Trey’s building shared the block with a luxury hotel and a huge parking garage, the rest of the space taken by a rare Midtown green space that stretched between the buildings.

Haven’s portion of the lawn had a bocce-ball court and little bistro tables, all set far enough from each other to afford some privacy. It was a perfect place to talk. Being in public would keep us calm and quiet. We would be forced to be gentle with each other. A drink wouldn’t hurt either.

I texted back. Good idea. I’ll reserve an outside table. Six o’clock?

He thumbsed-up my text, and that was all.

By the time the girls got home from rehearsal and Robotics Club, I had my happy-mommy face back on. I’d called Mom over to sit with all three kids. I knew it would be hard on her nerves, but I couldn’t leave the house without her there. My mother was more vigilant than any fifty ex-marines. She’d drive the bodyguards insane, making sure every slight noise or shadow was thoroughly investigated.

I’d had a serious come-to-Jesus with her about PTSD and what she could and could not say to my daughters. She was doing her best to match her face to mine, calm and smiling. Still, her shoulders were tense, and right before the girls got home, she’d questioned me relentlessly about how the search for Lexie Pine was going.

Not well. Neither the police nor Marshall and Gabrielle had any traction. Marshall agreed with me: This boded ill. An innocent Lexie, one who had not helped her mother commit kidnappings and murders, would come forward to claim her mother’s body. Best case, she was on the run, far away. If she was close, this deep in hiding—it spoke of very bad intentions.

“Ugh! Another date night?” Anna-Claire asked, giving her sister a sideways glance that spoke volumes.

I’d dressed myself so carefully, as if for a date, choosing a floral sundress that was the modern version of the dress I’d once worn to the High Museum. It had a swirly skirt that ended above the knee, and I’d thrown a light sweater on over it, peach-pale and flattering. I’d used a heavy hand with the makeup, trying for the kind of fresh and natural pretty that takes an hour and a thousand products when the starting face was as tired and haggard as my own.

“Yep,” I told my daughters, cheery, cheery.

Anna-Claire had already been sucked back into her phone, but Peyton gave me a long, hard look. She sensed that something was up. Of course, with her anxiety she always sensed that something was up. It was inevitable that sometimes she would be right. I smiled, reassuring. I knew how to play the role of her mother. My body knew how to telegraph soft, reassuring lies.

“We’re tired of being cooped up. This will be over soon.” I was lying to my own mother as much as my children. She stood, bobbling Robert, a less convincing smile than mine plastered on her face. “You guys can order dinner, but you had pizza last night. Get noodle bowls or Thai. Something with vegetables.”

“Pizza can have vegetables,” Peyton said.

“You heard me, Peyton Rose,” I said. God, but I was tired. I handed her my black Amex.

Except it wasn’t really mine, was it? It had my name on it, but it was Trey’s account. All our credit-card accounts were Trey’s.